Morning arrival on 10 December 2021 in Guadeloupe after the two-week Atlantic crossing from Cabo Verde (Source: own photo)
We crossed that Atlantic on Twende in stages.
We left Sesimbra in Portugal, and headed to Porto Santo and Madeira.
Then we sailed to the Canary Islands.
From there, we cruised along the African coast to Cabo Verde.
The final two-week leg of the Atlantic Crossing was Cabo Verde to Guadeloupe.
This is when we experienced true blue water cruising.
When you cross an ocean, you become acutely aware of everything around you.
The ocean. The weather.
All the time.
Far more than when cruising in coastal waters.
Out here, you are too far from any bolt hole to escape if things get hairy.
You are on your own.
And nature out here is formidable.
The wind is like a wall, twenty eight knots tall and rock solid.
It carves the ocean into giant waves.
Endless rollers, as tall as multi-story apartment blocks, come at you from behind every ten seconds.
You cannot even see over them from inside the cockpit.
Yet, magically, Twende glides over each of these enormous seas with ease.
When we crest, we suddenly see - for just a few seconds - miles around in all directions.
The endless world of sky and ocean, blue on blue.
And then we plunge back into the ocean valley as the roller scoots out from beneath Twende’s bows en route to the Caribbean.
We sail with two reefs in the main, no jib.
We can hold nearly 180 degrees to the wind, that is, with the wind almost directly behind us.
We move at an average speed of 7.5 knots despite the small sail area.
Our speed varies greatly with the waves.
Each time a giant swell catches us, we accelerate to 11-12 knots, only to slow sharply to 4 knots as the wave moves on.
On board, we rock back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock.
Helming in strong winds and big seas is all about protecting the rig.
We must avoid gybing at all cost at these low points of sail in strong winds. A gybe would rip through the preventer and damage the rig.
The forces are enormous.
Yet, this is exhilarating!
In the daylight hours, the sun turns the water brilliant sparkling blue and the crests of the waves are as white as new-fallen mountain snow.
You want to scream for joy!
As we approach the Caribbean, we must watch out ever more for squalls.
As it travels from Sahara towards the Caribbean, the warm air picks up moisture and squalls become far more frequent.
They usually hit us at night, when the moisture collected during the day forms clouds in the cooler night air.
Small vicious localised rain storms coming at us from the east.
Like fast cars in the outer lanes of German motorways.
When they hit us everything goes haywire.
It is always pitch dark. No moon. Zero visibility. Heavy rain.
With barely any notice, the wind speed doubles to nearly 50 knots and changes direction wildly.
We sail by instrument.
Blind.
But not deaf.
The ocean roars. The wind howls.
We do all we can to keep the boat downwind, to de-power the sail.
On nights with many squalls, we steer all the time, every minute of each three-hour watch.
Calm returns at dawn.
And we glide once more serenely westwards towards our destination.
Ocean sailing is something else.
It is bigger.
The forces are greater.
It is awesome.
The End
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